


an escapade in blood

by ChappiRuki



Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fucked Up, Going to Hell, Minor Violence, Slow Build, Work In Progress, tsundere idiots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-18
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-07-15 17:58:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 9,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7232875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChappiRuki/pseuds/ChappiRuki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>-where she smashes into his lonely life instantly without warning in a bloody sick world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. someone's finally here

-x-

He sits back in his chair and waits patiently for darkness to fall. It'd be much earlier tonight, he thinks, since it's winter, though it isn't as cold as last year's. From his far-seated position, he looks out the dusty, crooked window and notes that this year's snow is flowing down slower than usual. Weird, he comments. He leans back and stretches out his legs with his hands behind his head; it's nearly always like this: silent and peaceful with a dew of coldness that he likes. People would think his job would be insane and crazy, but in reality it's rather-

-his eyes swerve to the sound of padding at the end of the other block. Having been here for so long, he became in-tune with the many, many different footsteps; thus he concludes that this is the Koroshimasu Group, or K, as he'd preferred to say (he was never good with names). _K,_ he rings monotonously in his head, a long time ago some sort of emotion would've riled him up to want to kill all of them; but nowadays, he hardly itched, even if he does remember them a little bit.

(just a little bit)

 _Close_ , he determines after a few seconds, but still too far to safely kill without anyone's notice; he waits impatiently for ten more minutes.

(so despite how slow and boring his job mostly is, he is always, always on high-alert.)

The tension in his bones is always there, no matter how calm he makes it to be. The peacefulness is _exactly_ what's driving him crazy, he muses, it's too quiet and slow, which is exactly the opposite he'd expected and wanted. More action means less thinking; more action means less of everything he hates, and there are so many _many_ things he doesn't want to remember- he climbs to the roof and spots them; with a nonchalant look on his face, he swoops down and quickly dismembers them.

(he brushes aside the fact he'd only waited for five minutes.)

.

.

Being emotionless, feeling _nothing_ , he adds, is a bonus, because everything other than that took too much brain power; which was annoying as fuck and so much easier to think people are things (or 'it', as he calls it) that are meant to die soon, though when it comes to the 'K' group he calls them 'K' and not 'it', but even so-

-blood is blood.

Although sometimes, he has trouble believing blood is a thing, because he'd heard it was warm -from books of such a long long time ago and from people he once fought with- and yet, he eyes 'K' blood dripping down his arm, it's cold; much too cold to be blood.

(but that's what makes it so easy.)

.

.

And of course the moment he thinks of this, karma hits him right in the gut and he tastes blood for the first time in his killing regime. He recalls that in that instant, he'd slaughtered 'K1' in front of him, but _then,_ he'd missed seeing 'K2' behind him, who strikes him through his back to 'K1' stomach. 'K1' falls as he simultaneously holds the sword in place behind and in front of him to keep the man from fucking moving the damn sword. But it's a moment too long for him and he tastes his own blood as he spits it out: salty and thin and lukewarm.

(if he were still human, he'd think of this to be gross, he muses; but instead, it is very cold and very tolerable.)

The stupid thought makes his hold _loose_ and would've easily killed him on the spot if it weren't for another girl's (yes, _girl,_ he confirms again when he looks closely at the hideous stuffed toy sitting too still and too perfect on her shoulder) interference, and he wonders who the fuck she is to think she has the right to save this piece of shit he is. He glares intensely at her: _i can fucking take care of myself you goddamn brat, don't you fucking interfere, don't you fucking ever try to prevent my imminent death when I'm so fucking ready to-_

-and coincidental or not, she turns and tilts her head at him with a nonchalant look of: _I know- and I don't give a fuck._

(he doesn't know how the fuck he knows she says that without saying anything, he doesn't know how she knows him, he doesn't know why she even-

he doesn't know anything anymore.)

-x-


	2. stalker game start!

-x-

A step forward, and she follows. A couple sharp turns, and _still_ she follows. He grits his teeth and after seemingly disappearing around the block, he spins around and grabs behind him only to find thin air. He looks up, and from a foot away, he can see the creepy Cheshire grin spread from cheek to cheek. Shivers run up his spine before he remembers that this is a merely a game created by a _kid_ , and that games are _only_ for kids, so he shouldn't let brats fucking skyrocket his blood pressure. He briskly turns away and stomps off, peeved that he'd stoop to this level, just- _fuck this_.

(he could kill her later anyways, definitely.)

* * *

 

A submission, an escape, and she smirks with satisfaction. It's been a long time since she's messed around with someone who she didn't end up killing, and much much longer since she's had fun.

(she could let him live longer, definitely.)

-x-


	3. rukia: xD; ichigo: >(

-x-

He wakes up at twelve pm (it's too fucking _early_ ) to a clawing, screeching noise that grates his ears and pisses him off that he growls and turns to the noise; only to experience true terror at the sight of a black hooded figure that stares into his window with glowing black eyes ( _'the_ _fuck_ _is that even_ _possible_?), pushing and grating its claws against his small-ass window.

He screams like a little bitch for a short while before it grins and cackles and vanishes altogether.

.

A few minutes later of a pounding heart and stillness, he power-walks angrily to his dirty-ass window and looks out-

(and first, he notes: scowling, a little groggy, but otherwise a normal him, he affirms.)

-and _of course_ it's her, smiling innocently and waving to him in _broad daylight_ he adds to her stupidity, although he duly notes she does so behind a conveniently life-sized rock from his two-story complex dojo grounds.

(then again she's hella short and probably ten, he snorts.)

Then he remembers acting like a bitch, and thanks the architects for his sound-proof rooms- he pauses, or at least, he hopes it still works; he has a suspicion that the wide smile on her face has something to do with his scream, or maybe the look on his face (a better but unsatisfying option still, he thinks grumpily).

He doesn't know who spots who first, but the stuffed bunny on her shoulder catches his eye; he can't remember if the last time he saw it if it had a cute, innocent, and blood-winning, creepy smile. But it has to because then otherwise it's _alive_ , or she changed it on purpose (yes, yes, he mutters, that's it).

He shakes himself out of it and flips both of them the middle finger, and stalks off to sleep away this nonsensical game she played.

...

...

It doesn't take long for him to realize that sleeping away the pranks she pulls doesn't work when he hardly gets any sleep any more _because_ of her (never mind the fact he usually slept three hours or less).

Since then, she's thrown a pebble at his window, so hard he thought it'd break (luckily it doesn't). A ring from his door only for him to find no one to stab- wait, he doesn't _have_ one- _fuck_ , and it's the freakin' monster again, to which he responds to shutting the door and stalking off. The next, it's an odor so bad his eyes mist over and covers his mouth as he nears the scent, which turns out to be really, _really_ rotten food.

To his credit, he _tries_ throttling off the savage, annoying, _fucking_ -he stops and inhales and exhales- teenager (teenager, not a kid, he'd decided, because no girl of such a young age could ruthlessly kill without emotion). He never speaks a word to her (and musters his intense scowl at her, and _of course_ she didn't react); doesn't offer her food when she offers him (gross) snacks; leaves her to fend for herself in the dark with killers; poisons the food she gets for herself (and he suspects she's an alien, because she ate _every single piece_ , and never had a problem)-

-and still she didn't leave.

-x-


	4. sadistic thinking before sadism happens

-x-

He awakens and swings his arm in front of him and peers through the watch's cracked screen: six full hours today, he concludes, three of it being deep sleep. Then: no nightmare, check; no sweat, check; fully-rested than before, check. This is the fifth day in a row it's happened since the girl came after just two days, he thinks, tapping his fingers slowly against his bedside. He pulls out a small paper and re-reads the words for the second time: _i sent you something good! have fun~! :3_

(god, he hates his boss and his stupid emojis. seriously.)

He stares at it for the third time, and let's his lighter burn it away in a flash; he stomps out the flames after. There's no way she has anything to do with his boss. Absolutely no fucking way.

(it was too moronic to even _think_ about it.)

Then he hears a sound from his door; he instantly rises to his feet and bounds down to the door and chases her out of his domain like a buffoon.

* * *

She's surprised: this man does not crack.

He does not try to kill her, or throttle her, or _do_ anything life-threatening besides react angrily (to her delight) and mutter a few curse words before returning to his pace of life.

(hell, he'd even given her good food, she pauses, _really_ good food that showered her mouth with unknown but delightful flavors and filled her with life. she wonders if he's trying to appeal to her to stop the mischief altogether, or if it's to feed her. she wonders if he'd noticed that he'd also wait for her to finish her own prey off before departing from the shadows. either way-)

This.

This is not who she expects to meet after years of their first meeting and after research and listening to rumors and observing (or in a better and crude part of the word: stalking). She'd been sure that the permanent scowl and rigid routine he carried out and the merciless methods of killing he did would mean he'd have little patience to deal with her antics.

It's like...he's  _used_ to this.

(she thinks now, the first time she'd allowed himself to see her follow him, he hadn't been meaning to kill her.

...

how _curious_ , she muses, her lips forming a wide grin.)

She decides to overstep her boundaries.

-x-


	5. reflections and denials and not

-x-

He figures today would be his alone time -as she has not messed with him earlier today- so he's a bit relaxed, but of _course_ she arrives at the worst possible time: his killing spree of the 'K'. She jumps in front of him and knocks her illuminating white blade against his; a tactical surprise, he reluctantly admits, strong enough to knock him over and enough time for her to kill off the rest, but.

He glares at her: they are _his_ prey, _his_ responsibility, and no one else's but his, and he won't stand for this. He _won't._

He places his blade to her neck and presses hard enough to draw a line of blood, but instead of a creepy smile or an attack or perhaps even fear, she doesn't move and faces him head-on without doing anything. So close and he can't avoid his eyes from her face: she's been ready to die for a long, long time.

(it's a lot like his eyes and he doesn't like it.)

She shakes her head, _no_ , and precariously digs the blade deeper into her own neck but she doesn't care, because he needs to know: there is a difference between _wanting_ to die and being _fearless_.

(of him anyways)

.

.

.

He sees the courage light up within them, and he's pulled back to a time where he once loved someone with those same eyes, except the iris was brown and always, always full of love; even when the blade was placed against her neck and- he grits his teeth, _tch_.

(she'd got him dammit.)

He hurls the forgotten blade away and it lands blade-first into a wall; but he doesn't miss the way her blood pools from her neck, or how he'd made it splatter across the floor, and how very warm it is when it gets him in the face. For the second time in a very _very_ long time, he feels the guilt swallow him whole:

(it's a small child that's staring back at him with horror in her eyes as the blade slices her throat clean and the head sputters a bit for ten seconds before finally going still; and he's choking back on the feeling of something painful climbing up from his heart to his throat and he wants to throw up-

-he blinks and all he sees is the wall.)

_fuck_

.

.

.

She places her needle down and checks out her skill; not bad, she muses as she inspects the thread she'd sewn to close the wound. After years of not being touched by a blade and thus not having to do these self-surgeries, she considers this an accomplishment, though it _is_ a bit more jagged than it is. She puts a gauze on top and tapes it to her wound. Then she lies on the floor: his face, the trauma and his eyes seeing someone else was written all over his face, not at all like the image he'd given her the past two weeks.

Obviously it isn't that he wanted to kill her (she'd be dead already), it was more like she'd pushed a few of his buttons that had not only incited real anger, but had also triggered something in the long-forgotten past, probably.

(probably, only because she isn't sure if that face is exactly like hers.)

She thinks back of the files and remembers he once had a family, a husband with a gorgeous, innocent woman named- mm, she thinks, _Orihime_. But they're nothing alike, she muses, with their contrasting hair colors and height and chest, so what else could- _oh_ , she pulls out a file mentally, they did have one daughter: Akuma, a kid about her height, but that was all.

The other file had contained even less knowledge of everything before the marriage. All she knew was that he'd had a father, a mother, and two sisters; there were no pictures of any of his family bloodline.

What she _does_ know: both of his families tragically died and someone must've been killed (why else would he be here now?), how though, she does not know.

Still, it's hard to imagine him as a decent husband, much less a decent _father_ with that scowl that could scare off any spineless kid. She touches the gauze absently.

(what a weak assassin, she muses, to not finish her off because of lingering feelings and whatnot.)

Surprisingly though, she does not feel any regret. The three he'd been planning to kill were -she sensed- different, _dangerous_ , and then something else flashed in the air and she just couldn't stay still. She looks down at the item in her hand that she'd sliced in half before it could end him, and decides to inspect it further and add it to her own weaponry.

...

(it's the first she's saved anyone on purpose, and it's so _glaringly_ out of character that even she sees that going that far for her own entertainment isn't plausible, _especially_ not for someone like her boss.)

...

And then she's no longer thinking about him but about _her_ , and it doesn't take much to realize that the guileless, innocent fun she'd begun turned to an insatiable curiosity long before _._

She doesn't quite remember the last time she'd wanted to know a person so much, much less a target.

..

.

(the thought unsettles her.)

-x-


	6. from "fuck you" to "thank you"

 

-x-

He wakes up at six pm and wipes away forgotten tears and takes a look at himself: bright orange hair, amber eyes, a scowl- normal, he affirms. 

(he ignores the dried-up tear trails and washes them away; the dark, dark circles under his eyes from nightmares; the obvious lack of sleep and her _blood_ - 

he ignores that she hasn't bothered him for a month since then and pretends he's ok with it.) 

He puts on his tight black uniform and places his sword on his back and walks to the door, intending to go out to patrol in the night again, but just as he slides a key in, he hears a window slide open smoothly- the one he uses at night to get in and leave. 

He races to his room in a flash and throws a fist at the intruder -  _her_ face; in the momentum, he instantly diverts his fist to the wooden wall beside her and feels it crumble under his strength, but he does not care, he does not care because _that's not her fucking face_.  

He shifts his eyes from the cracking wood to her face with fury in his eyes and nearly snarls at her, _you fucking fool_ , but he’s so close that he could see her very dark violet eyes and the _empathy_ and what the actual _fuck_ _?_  

(he wonders how she could not perceive this as threatening, unlike so, so many others.) 

He tears his eyes away from hers, only to travel down to her neck- scarf, that's perfectly wrapped around her neck. Impulsively, he touches said scarf, but loses the strength to pull it down (because what if it's a damn _scar_? what if the damage is undone and she's actually still bleeding and possibly dying and just here to say her last words like-) 

She curls his shaking hand in her warm one until it stops and tugs the scarf down slowly. His eyes stare at the perfectly, untouched pale skin and breathes out slow, still keeping his eyes on it; he furrows his eyebrows. 

(he had plenty of scars, and to see no trace of it-) 

She grins and holds out her hand in truce. He stares at it as if the gesture had never happened to him, before she waves an envelope in her hand. A very noticeable envelope that has the exact, permanent black mark on the back that usually gets delivered under his door threshold that can only be picked up by lifting the _heavy_ metal- 230 kilograms to be exact; all of this, because of security reasons, and now: because of her. 

He reaches out to snatch it away, but she's faster and leaps away from him, dodging each time at lightning speed and he's still somewhat groggy and ex _tremely_  hungry- 

-the delicious aroma of wonderful, wonderful _food_ reaches his nose and he follows the scent: it’s in _her_ hand too. 

_This_ _motherfu_ \- his brain short-circuits before he can think: he shakes her hand shortly, snatches the food away and gulfs it down and thinks after a good two minutes: _so she can cook_. Still eating, he catches a flash of white in front of him and snatches the envelope out of her hand. 

She smirks and eats beside him as well. 

It's been an extremely long time since he's tasted homemade food, much less ate _with_ someone. 

(she smiles smugly, _i_ _used your kitchen_ ; he grunts.) 

. 

. 

It's when he's done with his meal that he notices his hand isn't bleeding anymore from the earlier violence. He looks up and sure enough, there is still the crack he'd made into the wooden wall (he'd have to fix it later, damn bitch); and he swears he remembers the pain and red, scabby-looking his fist had looked after. He looks up at her suspiciously, and sure enough, she tilts her head with a smirk whilst pointing at the goddamn accursed rabbit on her shoulder. He stares at it for a moment, too long that apparently he'd seen the eyes move, and quickly shuts his eyes, moving to a meditative pose. 

(his blood pressure lowers. 

. 

he finally understands the saying, why sometimes too much knowledge was bad.) 

. 

It's when she's done that he opens his eyes up and looks at her, gathering up his bento as long as hers in a bag. In those few seconds, he struggles to form the words in his mouth; because nice things were just things he didn't do anymore, and to do so now, he feels would be too odd. With that excuse in mind, he settles for silence; awkwardly, his eyes shift around, looking for distraction, but then he notes that even the _wall_ he just hit is nice and flat and no longer in need of repair. 

God _dammit,_ he curses, running his hand awkwardly through his hair. 

. 

.. 

_...Thanks_.

-x-


	7. "was" and "had" and he fails to lie to himself.

-x-

She turns and shows surprise first at his admission before her lips curl into a reciprocating smile and jumps out the window without further ado. He crosses his arms and mutters under his breath, _rude much?_ ; deservingly pissed that he's participating in her stupid game and being tossed around by a selfish brat who comes and goes without saying a word. 

(well, he decides, she's not _that_ bad.) 

He goes over to shut the window, and the moment he does, he spots a shadow of movement in the dark alleyway. He narrows his eyes suspiciously, and peers closer, only to find that it's her silhouette. 

Right next to his building. 

( _what the-_ ) 

-she looks up and he quickly snaps his mouth shut; she smirks. 

He slams the window shut with finality that it almost breaks and pulls the ragged remains of a curtain across the scratched glass. 

(he would _not_ feel sorry for this girl, he would _not_ think about her, he would _not_ relate her to-) 

. 

Twenty minutes later he looks out again ( _just checking if she's stalking me, yeah, that's it, that's-_ ) and peers closer. 

The alleyway isn't bad, as if it's been cleaned and scrubbed -probably by her- but the strange feeling of unease remains: she could be killed there, much too easily, just like- 

(as his mind churns to darker waters, not once does he remember that she's a goddamn assassin.) 

. 

. 

After a painful discussion in his head, he finally makes up his mind and walks down the hallway. He slides the door open and looks around: trash lying everywhere and dust everywhere and it's just, _gross_ ; unlike his own immaculate room (because he does like to keep his room clean). 

He mutters under his breath, looks out, and starts cleaning up. 

... 

Two hours later he charges down the stairs and into the dark, hidden alleyway and throws her the keys to another room available in his empty-ass semi-dojo. Without even a second thought, she throws the keys back at him and shakes her head. 

He stares at her in disbelief. 

She shakes her head again with a firm: _no_. 

He absorbs the firm determination in her eyes, voice, and stance; considers the thought of forcing her back with him, and then there is the: _what am I even doing?_ He had no obligation to save her, a mere stranger, one who had only bought trouble and had triggered his nightmares and past to the table; absolutely someone he did not need.  

(she was unnecessary.) 

.

. 

He leaves with the image of her eyes burned into the back of his mind.

-x-


	8. bitch, i'm right here. do you not see?

-x-

 

It's a fresh kill tonight and his mind is dangerously elsewhere again: probably a migrant, since her place held the basic survival items to live in this wretched area. 

(because that's the only logical reason for her to reject his safer place, because there's no way anyone would want to stay at the fucking alleyway; hell, had it been his-) 

-he hears his prey incoming around the corner from his high perch and steadies himself readily. _One, two, three_ , and he jumps and slices it cleanly in half; it falls and before he can get to the rest, they're down already.  

(she's _here_.) 

She stands in the middle of the corpses with blood smeared across her body; the moon highlighting her back. Calmly, she turns around and catches his gaze; then she tilts her head and smiles eerily with a shadow cast over her eyes. 

This time, there are no chills running down his spine. Instead: there is a feeling of something breaking and a thousand heavy emotions whirling within him; a feeling that someone like her should not be doing _this_ but be happy and innocent and- _forgetforgetforget_ , and: they only have ten seconds to evacuate, so he grabs her by the arm and runs off into the shadows. 

. 

She stares up at him and wonders why he's pressing her against the wall so hard that she feels her head being crushed between his chest and the wall, but the moment she focuses on her hearing (to see if the stupid assassins are gone so she can throw him off), his rapidly-pounding heart answers her. 

(but they're not quite safe yet so she says nothing and let's him cover her against the wall behind a pile of boxes as the searchers run around aimlessly.) 

She knows she should be paranoid and wary like him but really, she's not; she places his hand over her heart and lets him feel her steadily calm, beating heart. It works: his slows down dramatically and beats to her tune. 

(she sneaks a look, and finds the same anger and sadness and angsty look; the same twisted pleasure arises within her from seeing his reaction, but, _but_ -  

-it's the first time she really wants to change it, and see _more._ ) 

. 

When they leave and everything is in absolute stillness again, he gets up, only to be pulled back down. His arms move to shake her off but there's something else in her eyes that keeps him paralyzed in place whilst stirring up long-forgotten emotions _again-_ except it's different and nothing that had reminded him of his daughter. 

(because he remembers those gray, loving eyes all too well.) 

But had he known she'd meant to press her soft lips against his, he would've shoved her off faster -it's so fucking _warm-_ his brain screams for him to stop this before she slips her tongue in and _everything_ stops.  

. 

. 

Eternity ends when she nips his lip, drawing a thin line of blood ( _punishment,_ she whispers) and it sends a wave of chills through him as he races back to reality: he winces as she licks it clean and pulls back. He stares and feels a shift in his world. 

He blinks again and sees no one else but _her_ and _only_ her. 

(she's not his daughter, his wife, or his sisters, or anyone else dead for that matter. 

. 

she's her own person, _yes_.) 

. 

. 

. 

 _Finally_ , he hears from her curled lips and then: _Rukia_. 

He thinks: _Assassin_ , _Killer_ , _Shinigami_ , and then: _Ichigo_ , a name hasn't heard in such a long time, he thinks, and he wonders why he gives her a name he doesn't even recognize is himself anymore. 

(because he'd tossed the name away since he'd failed to protect his mom, his family, his wife and daughter-) 

He whiffs a strong fragrance of lilac under him before he takes note of her presence and very bright violet eyes. She tilts her head with the same nonchalant look at him before flicking his forehead, _moron_. 

. 

. 

(for once, he agrees. 

. 

she's right here.)

-x-


	9. protection? wtf?

-x-

She steps back and turns to leave- he grabs her arm and drags her with him to his place, dusty and shabby as it is; it's _far_ better than where she's residing, he says verbally. Mouth-tight, she let's him lead the game down the small alleyways and twisting and turning and it makes her wonder if he's memorized this entire town's map. Finally, she looks up and sees the familiar building she'd been looking up for a while; stalking, peeping, whatever, she muses. It's when she sees the scratched-up window that she realizes that they're in _her_ alleyway- 

-and that he's no longer holding her hand. 

Somehow, in a matter of ten seconds or so, he'd found every evidence she'd managed to cover up to the best of her skills among the pile of organized but dusty environment; a couple of letters from 'K', bloodied bandages in a bag _,_ and more, and he wonders if _this_ is what she'd dealt with in the past month she'd disappeared. He turns to her, completely terrified of what the girl went through; she doesn't turn away from his angry gaze of _why the fuck didn't you tell me,_ and faces his evenly, _they're just threatening bullshit;_ _i'm_ _a fucking assassin expert._  

Suddenly, it becomes crystal clear why his boss had sent him that crappy letter, why his 'K' prey had lessened, why she'd kill them, been absent, reject his place- he promptly grabs her hand and drags her back to his living space without a word. 

(as if he needed to be protected, this stupid little shit, _honestly_.) 

-x-


	10. Chapter 10

-x-

He stops in front of the door of the room he'd cleaned up for her earlier- and promptly shuts the door again. 

(he doesn't want her running away, much less have her be threatened by someone and _not_ _be there_. 

he wouldn't allow that anymore.) 

Once they reach his room, he stops, still holding her hand tightly; he turns to her and mutters _just for one night_ and all the logical but not real reasons of why. She sees through everything and is tempted to snap and tell him she can protect herself and he seems to forget she's a _capable assassin_ , but her words fall with one look at him. She nods and let's him take control for once. 

(he needs it.) 

Reassured that she wouldn't run or do anything stupid, he releases her hand and opens his closet door, pulling out a rather dusty futon to his dismay. She chuckles before telling him they could share a futon; it wouldn't bother her. He sputters, red in the face, but before he could say anything more, she asks him if she could use the bathroom. 

He says yes; she departs. 

(he sits on the ground and lays his head in between his knees; _what the hell did_ _i_ _get myself into?_ , before promptly giving motherfucking  _Urahara_ a call and yelling-whispering at him for sending a kid to fucking save his ass that didn't _need_ saving by the way. 

. 

urahara just laughs and says that he needed to be saved all the more because of that.) 

* * *

She inhales sharply as the cold water splashes on top of her head and flow down her body. In a few seconds, she becomes used to it and takes a quick shower before changing into spare clothing. The mirror in front of her catches her eye and she stares at her reflection for the first time in weeks. She hears his angry voice in the room echo through the phone and the small voice of her boss comes through; she frowns at the unnecessary concern, _for god's sake, she could take care of herself_ , still she does appreciate anybody who yells at the stupid boss of hers- his, the stupid lax man needed it badly. 

(and it was because he hadn't been stupid and lax when he'd practically begged her to go that she'd came into all this, and now, this mess. 

. 

he fucking owed her.) 

The dark circles are prominently under her eyes on her ghastly white skin, along with a few cuts here and there that came inevitably with being an assassin. She wonders if she should wear make-up to hide these things; because he probably had good night vision like her (and would fucking nag at her for it). She bites her lips and flips open her make-up case with a small _clack_ , before hearing his footsteps near the door. Her fingers hover over her foundation as she listens: _what do you need make-up for?_  

She wonders _how the hell does he know this?_ and _what the fuck is he doing listening_ \- until she remembers that he is an assassin with a keen ear like hers, and that he had a wife; and with this, she determines that he'd been an assassin still at the time. She wonders briefly for a moment if this wife of his knew that he'd been one. 

(she doubts it.) 

The sharp voice interrupts her train of thought and she snarls at him to mind his own business before shoving the make-up back into her pouch. 

. 

When the door opens, he instantly sees the dark circles that she probably wanted to hide under make-up; and had she been normal, he'd have assumed it was a self-esteem issue. But she wasn't; he wonders what her motive was. 

(because there's no way this girl would be so stupid that she'd try to hide these to fucking not let him worry about it- not that he _is_ worried, he quickly asserts.) 

Still, he frowns and heaves a sigh before throwing his two-cents in that she should get some rest, patting her head as he heads towards the bathroom. 

( _you too_ , he hears, and ignores promptly, before the mirror rings true as it looks back at him with the same restless face as hers.) 

. 

. 

When he shuts the door behind him, she looks around the room and notes that it's cleaner than the rest of his dojo. Strange, she notes, only the window ahead isn't as clean; and she thinks he's quite smart, since then it'd be hard for them to see through it. She looks out the dusty window and sees what he saw: his daughter in a cramped but tidy alleyway, protected only by the darkness and cover of half of a granite wall, though now she supposes it'd just be her: a weird, unrelated girl living on her own. 

And yet, he still dragged her here, despite the illusion having been broken. 

... 

(what a foolishly kind and selfish assassin, she muses) 

. 

. 

When he comes out, he finds her fast asleep in the futon he'd cleaned up, and unlike his earlier embarrassment, he feels a wave of relief and calm ride him. Despite having heard her slow and heavy breaths that obviously indicated she was sleeping, he still couldn't believe it until he confirmed it with his own eyes. 

He settles himself against the wall and falls fast asleep.

-x-


	11. it's just lips touchin' and all

 

-x-

He wakes up, and it's three motherfucking pm, he thinks irritably, and _way_ too fucking warm- he jumps out in a flash and catches her amused grin, and he swears he wants to bash in this fucking playful bitch's face and his eyes lower down to her lips and he remembers- 

-he races for the bathroom whilst hearing a trail of fucking giggles behind him ( _fuck_ this bitch). 

. 

. 

He recalls last night's stupid accidental...lip contact, he thinks disgustedly (and repeats multiple times to himself that he did not like it and is _not_ a pedophile). He looks at himself in the mirror again, bright orange hair, scowl, and amber eyes- normal, he affirms (yep, _not_ a teen-fucker) and walks out. 

(he pretends he didn't notice the glowing irises, the straight line of his mouth, and his red-stained cheeks) 

He sees her sitting on the window-sill with that blood-stained, creepy bunny on her shoulder still. 

(he wonders if she ever goes without it.) 

He catches her half-eaten bento and eats it.

-x-


	12. bliss in the snow

-x-

She catches his eyes staring at the bunny on her shoulder for the _fiftieth_ time of the fucking week, and after small but potentially dangerous accidents: his blade nearly missing the artery of the assassin tonight, his clothes partly catching on fire, and finally when his stupid amber eyes keep staring at her to the point _she_ herself can _not_ concentrate; she snaps at him, _keep_ _your_ _eyes to_ _yourself_. 

At this, (because it's really, really rare to have her annoyed by _him_ ) he grins sneakily and turns his stare at the creature to her. Five seconds tick by before she rises from her seat and gives him a long look before walking out of the room, leaving the door open. 

(she’d amuse him.) 

* * *

 He feels the temperature decrease each time she walks further and further away to the lowest level of this place. Somehow, it comes as no surprise that she knows that the best open space is the basement (or another world of rocks and high ceilings as he'd call it). 

She lifts and kicks the concrete block to the side and jumps in without another word. He follows her automatically and touches a white floor of snow, that explaining the huge temperature decrease. He looks around and feels an odd sort of serenity as snowflakes fall and disappear into the snow. He looks at her back and knows it has something to do with her (probably threatened Urahara, he muses). 

When he looks back up at her again, a gnarly grin is sprawled across her face as she spins around to face him in the middle of the room. The creature vibrates excitedly on her shoulder and jumps into the air, expanding into a pale white scythe with the signature of an icy bunny-face he hated on the edge. Simultaneously, she dons on a ragged white one-piece on her pale white skin. The only color being her icy blue eyes standing out from the snow around her.  

Disgustingly cute and vicious and fucking smart at the same time, he thinks, staring in awe at the powerful tool in her hand, the snow flying out and around him as she swings it in demonstration of its power.  

What the _hell_ , he grins, feeling the walls shake behind him. Feeling the blade's power, a surge of old blood pumps through his veins and makes his whole body light. 

 _He_ _feel_ _s_ _something for fucking bloodshed_. 

There's a fear screaming at him that this is a goddamn awful idea. It is this same adrenaline that has led his family to the dead. It is the same awful feeling his enemies made as they slaughtered his family; the same awful feeling he made when he destroyed _his_ enemies' important people and is still looking for them endlessly.  

But something about this feels different, he thinks, this adrenaline is not to destroy but _challenge_ her. _Fight_ her.  

(there is no real reason, he realizes, he just wants to fight. 

. 

that, he thinks, he could accept.) 

An awful grin spreads across his face and he let's the excitement take his mind and body, his hand reaching for his katana behind his back, a mask forming across his face. He rushes at her and they both let their contagious aura of enjoyment consume them in this very moment. 

. 

. 

( _this_ , he thinks, is _bliss_.) 

-x-


	13. blank nightmares

-x-

He finds himself sweaty and wide awake the same night they had their first spar. He rises quickly and saunters to the bathroom quietly and wipes away the sweat pouring down his face. As he splashes his face with cold water, he tries to recall his nightmare.

… 

He stops, and grips the edges of the sink. 

(he can't remember. 

… 

 _what?_ ) 

. 

. 

He feels a small hand on his shoulder, and immediately moves to defense mode, but not fast enough to stop a hand to the wrist and a leg to the stomach, and he _cannot_ move.

A pause. He looks down. Violet.

His stomach twists and churns the dinner they had, and he swears he's about to throw up again and he doesn't know _why_. He wrenches his hand away from her grasp and tells- _demands_ her to go back to sleep. 

(he is beyond pathetic right now, and she's seen enough of that shit from him that it's beyond _unfair_ at this point, he argues to himself.)

.

.

Surprisingly, she obeys without a word. 

He watches the door shut behind him. 

(his guts twist some more before he finally pukes his remains.) 

-x-


	14. had it with his bullshit

-x-

She feels it in his bones, as their sparring increase over the week. The adrenaline rushing in him is beginning to be purely incarnate anger, she feels. The hits are stronger, and the sorrow is surfacing, but she finds that the anger fuels his success in killing, added with the fact that she is already doing as Kisuke-san asked: protect Ichigo from the K. That is what her payment is. 

(therefore, it is none of her business.) 

. 

. 

But then, he makes his first slip-up, and she finds it much too _easy_ to place her scythe centimeters above his neck. Ichigo expects a scolding from her for being so out of it today, for being so damn weak in a spar, and what he gets throws him off. 

She throws the scythe into the air above them and the scythe automatically turns into the tiny malicious bunny that lands on her shoulder. Both of them glare furiously at him. 

She. Has had. _Enough_.  

She took in an underserved command, went sleepless for many nights because of his fucking stupid nightmares, and bore his hatred in spars, but _this?_  

 _What the fuck is this?_ She hisses in his face. She did not show him her scythe for him to lose focus on the sparring and focus on his emotional turmoil that for some goddamn reason lasted for a _week_ thus far. And to slip-up like this- for _fuck’s_ sake, what if this was a real battle? What if he showed weakness to them and got himself _obliterated_?  

(and hell no was he going to take her job away from her just because he couldn’t protect himself from his own shitty insecurities.) 

Fuck him for refusing her help. Fuck him for ruining her entertainment. Fuck him for forcing his help on her and she couldn’t do the same. Fuck him if he thought she was gonna stick around a moping _bitch_. 

She was going to knock him out of it, whether he liked it or not. 

* * *

 

Ichigo has watched her long enough to know that the moment she crossed her arms with that nasty look that he was _fucked_. 

She sharply commands him to rise with his sword and come at her with his stupid weapon. He does, but not without noticing that she does not hold her scythe. She does not move to hold it, he does not make a move on her. 

She narrows her eyes and grins that awful grin of hers and he decides right then and there that he _hates_ her. He _despises_ her for bringing out the animal within him that was sleeping for so long and how _easy_ she did it just by showing off that weapon of hers.  

(but his body moves to her because he recognizes the challenge in her disdainful eyes: _touch me if you_ _think you_ _can, you_ _weakling_.)

-x-

 


	15. take a breather

 -x-

When he stops to catch his breath, she stands above him from her perch on the rock and grins slyly. _Tired?_  

 _Shut up_ , he hisses, sweat evaporating into the cold air. Just, _shut up_.  

She lifts his chin from the point of her flat and decides that the disgruntled look on his face is good enough to warrant satisfaction for making the week insufferable for the both of them.  

* * *

He braces himself for the impact of her shoe on his face because even if she is a bitch and absolutely insufferable, he is more than highly aware that he’s been an ass and he deserves it.  

He does not shut his eyes as he is still stubborn as ever, and growls lowly when he sees the satisfaction in her face, and then confusion hits. _Why is she leaning down and_ _-_  

Her face is so close to his and her warm hands are on his cheeks and her breath mist over his and it’s lilac and frosty and misty all at once and freezes him to the core.  

(he is enchanted and there is nothing he can do about it.) 

She tells him: nightmares of his are subconscious fears, that his lack of remembrance is merely a way of him protecting himself, that even if he knows in his mind this enjoyment in sparring differs from his enjoyment in killing, that he cannot help but still fear it. _There is nothing wrong or unusual about_ _that._  

So goddammit, just let her _help_ him get through his shit.  

(the words echo and transmit through him. 

.  

a weight lifts.) 

* * *

The words are spoken and they are still, and very close that he can see the familiar concern etched in that shakes him like the first time. He remembers her body held up against him so _closely_ _,_ and those lips of hers- 

-he rests his head on her shoulder and quietly suppresses his fucking demons, but then he can still smell the lilac (and he _swears_ she’s never had any perfume on before) that hardly helps him suppress his damn desires. 

God, he _hates_ her. 

(he holds her tightly, breathes her in, and drops his walls.)

* * *

 

( _and don't you dare make me say that again._

.

 _i won't. i promise._ )

-x-


	16. fear creates shitty things.

-x-

They don't talk about it further, the memory of consolation having been snapped open and closed right then and there. Instead, she waits for him to fall asleep with her hand in his. When he wakes up fresh from a nightmare, she runs cold tap water on the towel and cools him down while making sarcastic comments. After a parry of words, she drags him into her futon with insistence and they fall asleep side-by-side.  

He hates sleeping beside her for the first week. When he wakes up, he's awoken with a fucking morning boner that's _intensified_ because there is a female right next to him, and he hasn't been close, much less seen a girl for _decades_. He grits his teeth and forces control over his dick before rushing to the shower and taking an extremely cold one.  

(fucking morning boners, he curses.) 

But it gets easier, he finds. A routine is still a routine after all. So eventually he stops resisting and she stops insisting, and they naturally sleep together in the futon. The nightmares become shorter and he connects the memory pieces each time. She does not ask. He does not say. 

(he wonders why.) 

. 

So he asks her when the nagging pops up in his brain at the most inconvenient time: he's in the futon, arms behind his head, she's turned on her side facing the wall, and he's counting her slow breaths that's slowly, slowly leading to sleep, until the thought flashes by and he blurts out the question without a second thought. He hears a small indignant sigh: _do you want me to ask, only to get no answer?_   

He considers this for a second, before _yes_. Yes, he wants her to ask and confirm his want to know of his importance to her. He wants her to show that she cares about him, because she is becoming something more to him and he wants it to be equal and balanced like how he evens out his killings and money and time. Because what if she'd agreed to come into his domain only to do her job? What if she's helping him because Urahara wants her to? What if she's doing all of this for nothing more than fucking _money?_  

(he is afraid of repeats.)

Silence fills the room before her breaths turn slower and deeper and extremely irritated and muffled with sleep: _that is not my job fool_.  

(as she sleeps, he stares at the ceiling with a heated glare and tries to burn a hole through it.) 

 

* * *

 

There is something bothering him today, she knows. He is colder while speaking, angrier in their banters, and rash but still accurate in his killings. She tries to remember what the hell it could be but comes up only that his nightmares that he has pieced together is giving him anger. 

But it's not like she can ask, she sighs. It is a touchy subject of his past that obviously must have something to do about the deaths of his parents and siblings and family. She does not know how to broach about such a thing on him, much less want to.  

(she, herself, does not think she could talk about it.) 

So, she remains quiet. 

. 

. 

But she finds even she has a limit of patience of such brash rudeness and anger directed at her, regardless of whether or not it has something to do with the touchy subject. Her mask and rigid pride bursts into flames when he insults her prized bunny on her shoulder with the clear intention of making her _furious_.  

 

* * *

He smirks as he finally sees the anger rise to her face. It is mean, it is petty, but nonetheless satisfying. She sees it and snarls before lowly speaking: _‘the fuck is your deal?_  

He leans forward with a snarky grin. _I’m a job remember? Deal with it._  

He is close enough for her to see the slight hurt and betrayal in his eyes and it’s enough to showcase what the fuck his problem is. She rolls her eyes, before casting an exasperated half-smile at him. _Ba-ka_. 

And now he can read the humor and concern in her face unlike her turned-away face where he could only evaluate her voice. He sees what she is telling him: i'm not going to ask because i know it'll hurt you and i can't do that idiot, _not_  I work for Urahara and to me, you're worth nothing more than a job. His ears turn slightly red, and he apologizes, has to. 

(it's embarrassing enough as it is.) 

When he opens his mouth speak more, she places her fingers on his lips and shakes her head _no_. Don't tell me just because you feel sorry right now. It'll hurt the both of us.

_Just tell me when you're ready, understand?_

. 

. 

. 

 _thank you_.

-x-


	17. crossing the line

-x-

He brought her here, he knows that. Some part of it was against her will, but she _stayed_ and that is what matters.  

But he does not concede - will _never_ concede - to her helping him kill, even if he acknowledges her as an assassin. He knows and understands that, but these are not her targets. They are _his_. He would not share that burden.

Even so, he says nothing for a long time. 

So naturally, all of the internal disdain simmers and boils to the top when she crosses the line and cuts off a 'K' from slicing his back. He doesn’t remember how argument 50 - 60? - started, probably something stupid, but it leads to the inevitable of saying stupid shit to each other, and then she slams him with _killing them doesn't repent their fucking deaths, you prideful fool!_  

… 

.. 

. 

When he leaves, she is still standing alone. She'd crossed an invisible line the both of them have created ever since that day. It is an unspoken agreement, and she has _broken_ _it_ (in the worst way possible too, she frets). 

She bites her lip, and thinks about what she has to do - _should_ do. But all that comes to mind is the way his eyes flashed in horror and how it’s the same face he has after the nightmare. 

...  

(she'd hit bullseye of his frequent nightmares without even trying.)

-x-


	18. long-earned trust

-x-

He can't quite remember what led him to this rooftop, much less breathe in the damn smoky, polluted air deeply that sent him to a near fit of coughs. He’d forgotten for a second how _shitty_ the air around here was. Still, he is here in the open air and decides to remain. 

(anything than that enclosed area of smothering words) 

He keeps himself in the shadows and lies in it. The anger in him is long gone, the shock has dissipated, and there is only remembering – _careful_ nostalgia, as he is not so detached from reality to get shot here – now.  

He remembers doing this before, where there were more kids in poverty like him. When his group of friends were bored, they'd play hide-and-seek. He remembers always traveling in groups to hide somewhere, because to do it alone in the dark had been frightening for a child like him. Darkness meant anyone could reach out and stab or beat them to death, only to never see it coming.  

But now it is different: he is not a kid anymore, he is alone in the dark, and he finds _comfort_ in it. It protects him from prying eyes, many incidences of near-deaths, and shields him from hurt. He embraces the dark completely because he is hidden. 

Or so he thought. There is one pair of eyes on him, but just this once, he doesn't mind that he's been found out. He shifts and relaxes on his side, his back turned to the observer. He shuts his eyes and drifts off to sleep.  

(this would be her punishment, he decides, to stay up and watch his back for tonight.) 

* * *

She already knew him to be incredibly dumb (kind) when it came to certain things, such as taking pity on her and letting her into his territory, eating her fucking food without so much of a thought that it could be poisoned, not asking the right questions – and she could go on and on and on. But _this_. 

This is absolutely beyond _insane_. 

She glares at him heatedly from her own perch on the rooftop, and thinks about the many things that could go wrong if he did not get off the damn rooftop right this instant. He returns her heated glare with a nonchalant look and keeps her gaze, before having the audacity to turn his back on her. 

Even through the heavy smog, she had seen the tiny smirk. (damn fool couldn't honestly be thinking of actually going _through_ with it-) 

Then her trained eyes take note of the way his back rises slowly up and down, his laxed form, and all of this confirms her dread: he is _sleeping_. On the motherfucking rooftop. _Unguarded_. 

That _bastard_ , she snarls, glaring daggers into his back. She could just _kill_ him right here and now and he'd never know. 

But the anger gives way to another emotion she did not expect to surface: happiness. There is another interpretation to this reckless action besides punishment, and the thought of it almost makes her dance in glee.  

(he’s willing to let her take his share of the burden, fucking _finally_.) 

However, she is not as dumb as him to give in to her emotions and scream in anger and joy at the top of her lungs towards him. Instead, she lies on her stomach in the dark and keeps her daggers ready-at-hand.  

This was going to be a long night.

-x-


	19. precious

-x-

As the sunlight begins to warm the destitute place through the cracks in the clouds, he wakes up. He considers stretching and cracking the stiff bones in his back, but decides not to make any more trouble for her- 

He stiffens, familiar dread fills his gut as he quickly scans the rooftop across from him. Again, again, and _again_. 

(Rukia, that bitch, where the _fuck_ did she go?) 

Nowhere. 

(and he remembers: the day he couldn't find his wife and kid at home and he ran, ran, and _ran_ until his legs turned to powder at the sight of them still alive - only to be beheaded by the sword on their throats-) 

Panic guides him as he moves to rise from his hiding position and leap to the other roof. But before he can, a grip on his arm forces him still. The scent of lilac fills his senses and the pressure of his knife on her neck loosens immediately. 

 _Let’s go_ , she whispers, before releasing her grip on his arm. He turns and pulls her back to him. Face pressed into his black shirt, she feels the concrete roof disappear beneath them and latches onto Ichigo tightly with her eyes shut. They free fall for a few minutes more before the air stops rushing around them and her hair falls down to her neck again. She feels the universe shift upright and waits. 

He doesn’t let go of her.  

His hold on her is so tight that she cannot lift her head from his chest to see him. His warmth overwhelms her senses and almost, _almost_ lulls her to sleep, were it not for her sleep-deprived brain registering the shaking throughout his chest, the quiet huff of breaths and gulps of air, the sudden new wetness in her hair, and the _I_ _remember, I remember, I_ _remember -_  

She pries her arms out of his grip and wraps them around his back consolingly. His back slides down the wall supporting him, his knees giving out from the adrenaline of pure _panic_ , and she catches a glimpse of a teary-eyed Ichigo that she would’ve laughed at if it hadn’t been the same face after a nightmare. Cupping his face, she kisses his forehead, cheeks, nose, and lips before touching foreheads and keeping steady eye contact with him, _I’m fine_. 

It isn't enough.

He cradles her face and presses his lips against hers passionately and roughly, needing the confirmation that she is _alive_ and _here_. He pulls back to catch his breath and catches a glimpse of her flushed face. Desire heightens and a low animalistic growl emits from his throat before he dives down for more. His tongue wraps around hers and she wraps her arms around his neck before they let go for air again.  

She leans into his shoulder and rapidly intakes breaths of air. He leans against the wall and focuses on suppressing his desires to take her right here and now. Instead, he lifts her up into his arms again despite her complaints of _I can walk by myself!_ and _let me down_ _!_  and races down the tunnels.

Her vain complaints die down as the minutes pass and the warmth from his body passes to her. She blinks sluggishly and pinches herself from time-to-time but eventually succumbs to sleep. 

.

.

. 

(he looks down at her, buries his nose into her hair, and inhales her lilac scent once more.) 

-x-

 


End file.
